


Evensong

by gidget_goes



Series: Vespers [2]
Category: Bravely Default (Video Game) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Complicated Relationships, Established Relationship, F/M, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Spies & Secret Agents, Thriller, and yes it was inspired by the backyardigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gidget_goes/pseuds/gidget_goes
Summary: Agnès buried her head in her hands. “How do you know what to hold on to?” she croaked. Alternis turned to Edea, expecting her to answer – but her blue eyes were glittering dangerously, the line of her shoulders tense and brittle. He swallowed. Hard.“You hold on to the rope,” he said at last. His voice, already small and flat, threatened to be crushed beneath the heavy darkness. “You hold on to the rope,” he deadpanned, once more, “and you try not to fall.”Special Agent Alternis Dim thought the stakes had been high before: when a man’s life had hung in the balance, and when a Crystalist cult had wrested control of the oil industry. But at least he hadn’t been alone, then. Now Edea’s missing, and the only clues to her location are threads in a spiderweb of international intrigue and blood-soaked history. One wrong move and he’ll unravel it all – but unforeseen dangers are everywhere . . . and everyone’s secrets are coming to light.
Relationships: Alternis Dim/Edea Lee
Series: Vespers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523342
Comments: 7
Kudos: 4





	Evensong

All Alternis could see was grey.

The streets of Hartschild stretched below the twentieth-storey window like a great graphite snake, winding around hairpin turns and closing hard fangs at the end of each block. Lapping against the serpentine curbs, the roads seemed some sludgy concrete river, asphalt slick and muddy-contoured in the rainwater. But they were grey all the same: grey and relentless, the labyrinth of the old quarter hanging like fraying thread from the charcoal patchwork of the city proper. The monochrome shapes did not so much stop at the horizon as they faded away, as a distant fog closed lazily in on the city. Special Agent Alternis Dim had come across a fair bit of death in his day, but never before had he seen a city so lifeless.

He was dimly aware of the streaks his clammy skin had left against the windowpane, and he felt, rather than saw, his breath begin to cloud the glass. Somewhere, buried deep beneath a building migraine and fading hangover, he harboured the notion that maybe – just maybe – those were signs he ought to move. But it was quite a small notion, and it was quite a big headache, and—

“—and we the jury find the defendant, Edea Lee . . . _guilty_!”

Alternis felt the back of his head clip the window as he whirled around, and felt a jolt of pain spread across the base of his neck: a spiderwebbing, lightning bolt kind of sensation almost like shattering glass (although the glass of the window was, of course, bulletproof). “Stop it,” he choked out, but Janne would not be deterred.

“Guilty!” he crowed again. His hands were cupped around his mouth, scratchy voice booming like a sportscaster’s as he imitated a microphone’s reverb.“Guh-guh-guh-guh- _guilty_!”

“I swear I will snap your neck, Balestra!”

The threat had come out clear where the warning hadn’t. With his eyes cast downward, Alternis could see his chest heaving under the thin cotton of his shirt, watching his collarbone upset the starched peaks of his collar. For a moment, the expanse of white fabric and shiny buttons was blinding as snow-glare. Then he heard a vague rustling, felt a faint pressure against his sternum – and finally, saw the way the stark white of his dress shirt broke around the brown shape of a hand.

“Sorry,” said Janne. “Touchy subject. I forgot.”

Janne hadn’t forgotten, Alternis knew, not really. He’d been testing the waters, and judging from the way his shoulders had shot up, found them unwelcoming. But he flashed a telenovela smile all the same, all lazy, dish soap charm. “T-minus twenty,” he offered, by means of a more genuine apology. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Dude, we’re professional liars. Why tell the truth?”

“Why lie to _you_?” Alternis countered, swinging away from the wall. “ _Special Agent_.”

“Oh, Crystals.” Janne yanked on the lanyard around his neck, flashing his ID. Sure enough, in tiny block letters, it pronounced him _“Special Agent Janne Balestra – CIA.”_ “D’you think if I eat this damned card, I’ll crap war crimes?”

“No, I think you’ll hurl. Come on, now it’s T-minus nineteen.”

A dizzying array of spirals and circles was strewn across the faded carpet, and they ebbed and eddied like the tide as Alternis and Janne began their stalk down the winding hotel hallway. There was a part of Alternis that wished they could stay in that three-star hallway forever. It seemed, after all, to stretch eternally along those snaking turns; the abstract, eighties carpet and the legions of identical locked doors turned the twentieth floor to a plaster kaleidoscope. But the rabbit hole had to end eventually. As the elevator doors wrenched open, Alternis felt the illusion dissolve around him (leaving nary a trace on his best black blazer).

“Agents.”

Though the lobby was bustling in the midmorning rush, the voice carried easily above the din. Alternis was duly chastised, even if Janne wasn’t.

“ _Special_ Agents,” he was muttering, under his breath. “Get it right, boss.”

“Marshal,” said Alternis, silencing his friend with a look. “Are we ready to leave?”

The Marshal didn’t look ready for much besides the grave. The past few months had aged him: his long blond hair was shot through with white, and his pale eyes were rimmed in red and dappled shadow. Once-craggy features seemed tacked halfheartedly onto the hollows of his face. Still, when he spoke, Alternis could feel his booming voice reach deep into his aching bones. “This isn’t _Law and Order_ , Lobo,” he said at last, using Janne’s codename. “It’s a disciplinary hearing. And turn your wire off. The last thing we need is for MI6 to think we’re spying on them.”

Janne’s angry flush made it all the way to the boot of their rented towncar, his eyebrows a haphazard sort of squiggle as he tossed his briefcase in. “They’re spying on _us_ ,” he protested, as he piled into the back seat. “Aren’t they?”

“We’re _witnesses_.” Holly Whyte, their cryptologist, turned stiffly in the driver’s seat to shoot Janne a withering glare. “That’s, like, the opposite of being spied on.”

“Can we just go?” Alternis held his own briefcase tight to his chest, ignoring the dull ache and its cold steel surface. Though usually reserved for gadgetry and weapons, today, the locked steel case held only two manila folders. One was full of scraps of paper – everything from old mission reports to notebook rip-outs to RiteAid receipts – covered in Holly’s looping handwriting, and the odd interjection from his favourite red pen. The other was flatter, neatly paper-clipped closed. It held three postcards: one dated for the first of each month to pass so far this year. Despite their reprieve within plastic sleeves, they were thoroughly tattered – all smudged ink and rolled-in-edges – and even Alternis would have to admit they’d been unreadable long before their lamination. Their terse messages were mummy-wrapped inside layers and layers of cipher, and he’d worried, as he’d watched Holly hunch over the cards, their meanings had been strangled from them by all that code. As it was, pressed deep beneath the spokes of an Alberti disk, squeezed into a Playfair, and accompanied by the odd crude drawing of an animal, the CIA had been informed of the following in January:

_“Seseli libanotis. Brocchinia reducta. No garden in Eden no snakes in garden.”_

_“Yunohana,”_ February’s postcard had announced, jumbled letters wound into pigpen. The cipher’s boxes were cramped and slanted next to a small bird helpfully labelled as a _“kingfisher,”_ and a figure whose ballgown and crown were adorned with card suits: the Queen of Hearts. But it was the March postcard that Alternis really cared about – the March postcard whose flimsy plastic lining had become smudged and greasy as he turned it over and over again in his hands, the March postcard whose creases had become tears and whose words seemed to bear the weight of the world.

 _“More flies with honey,”_ it had begun, just as cryptic as its fellows. This time, the cipher had been a simple Caesar shift, a tiny three circled in the corner to make it more painfully clear. It had gone on in a series of proverbs, all somehow, tangentially related to the first two messages – until the last line, in tiny letters along the bottom. _“Florem Times March second,”_ said the Caesar shift, then. _“Six across.”_

Alternis had raced to the paper recycling the instant he’d read it, and pulled out two rumpled copies of March second’s _Times_ for safe measure. _“Scaled agile framework”_ had been the crossword prompt. At four letters, all it could have meant was _“safe.”_

He’d dreamt of her, that night, and every night since.

_Safe._

“Seatbelts, everyone,” called Holly drily, as the Marshal swung into the shotgun seat. Janne flashed Alternis a knowing smile.

“‘Is this gonna be a normal field trip?’” he began. His voice cracked as he reached for his falsetto. “‘With the Friz? No way!’”

For a moment, all was silent – but when the Marshal began to laugh, it was as though the pin had been pulled from the grenade; fizzy giggles managed to drown the radio out all the way to the crosswalk. “Edea would have punched you for saying something so lame,” Alternis blurted out. Janne didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, then,” he said, “we’d best go prove her innocence, so she can get the chance.”

“You may be seated.”

The MI6 briefing room wouldn’t have looked out of place on the set of _Downtown Abbey_ – or perhaps _Angelina Ballerina_. The last time Alternis had seen it, he’d been looking in on a video call from the traitorous former head of Covert Operations: Edea’s handler, Argent Heinkel. It had seemed then that blood soaked the crimson wallpaper, the overstuffed bookcases crowded with lies. Now, the new head of CoveOps had covered every available surface in doilies, and velvet curtains framed the SmartBoard. There were even a few ceramic figurines of doe-eyed milkmaids and kittens. But the room’s warm interior was a far cry from its decorator. Agent Deneb seemed to be hewn entirely from marble, all cold grey eyes and straight grey hair. She wore a sharp red blazer Alternis had once seen Edea wear, and the thought almost prompted a smile – _almost_. The frown slashed across Deneb’s face froze the impulse in its tracks.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said flatly, taking a dainty sip from a _“World’s Best Boss”_ coffee mug. Alternis supposed the standards were, as of late, rather low. “This is a disciplinary hearing regarding the disappearance of Agent Edea Lee, codename Medusa, held whether to decide her disappearance indicates collaboration with ex-Agent Argent Heinkel, association with known religious extremists in the Bloodrose Legion, or otherwise treasonous behaviour. As the Agent’s location is unknown, this hearing will be held _in absentia_.”

“It should be held in my _ass_ -ia!”

Alternis craned his neck to see who had spoken. A tiny girl with bleach-blonde hair had thrust a manicured hand in the air, and waved it irately. Deneb pressed her fingers to her temples.

“Do not speak out of turn, Agent Napkatti. Now where was I . . . oh, yes. Can the plenum move to accept the terms of the hearing? All in favour, say—”

“Say ‘piss off!’”

This time, the speaker was a man with a heavy Tenebrae accent, his hulking frame about two folding chairs wide. “ _Language_ , Agent Chulainn!” snapped Deneb. Agent Chulainn seemed duly pleased with himself, a smirk dancing across his broad, friendly features.

“A- _hem_.” Deneb did not so much cough as she actually said the words, her glare stonier than ever as she rose from her perch behind her desk. “As I was saying, can we— ohfortheCrystals’sakewhatisit _now_?”

Though it had only just been cracked open, the heavy wooden door screeched on weathered hinges as it inched forward, and Alternis stiffened as the sound jolted through each of his vertebrae in turn. The tremulous voice to sound from the hall just barely cut through the building unease in the audience.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Yew Geneolgia.

“Yo, _Bae_ -dalus!” Janne burst from his seat with a great deal of scraping and jostling, and somehow, he managed to elbow Alternis twice in the process of waving their friend over. Still, Alternis had to grin. They’d all come to know Yew during their Florem mission – Janne even better as the two exchanged (encrypted) emails in the months to follow.Yew hadn’t exactly grown since Alternis had seen him last, but he stood slightly straighter, a determined purpose to his stride . . . which was only slightly undercut by the flush building on his cheeks. “Hi, Janne,” he managed. Deneb cleared her throat once more.

“Witnesses to the back row,” she told Yew, rather unnecessarily: he’d already squeezed in next to Janne. “Now can we _please_ begin the hearing?”

The metal of the folding chair was cold in a way his briefcase wasn’t, digging through the fabric of his blazer and shirt at hard right angles, and sending vectors of that chill deep into the frayed fabric of his muscles. Perhaps, Alternis reflected, perhaps it was because the briefcase held his lifeline to Edea, and the chair sat waiting for that line to be cut.

 _Or_ perhaps _I’ve just been hugging the briefcase for the past half hour,_ Alternis chided himself. _Don’t be so melodramatic._

As near as he could tell, the hearing was supposed to be broken into segments: Deneb was to present the case (as though anyone had forgotten Edea had disappeared on New Year’s Eve), witnesses were to be called to her cluttered desk to present evidence regarding Edea’s whereabouts and general motivations, and finally, the floor would be open for statements to her character: some long, drawn-out pity parade of well-wishers and drafted eulogies. Alternis’ heart had sunk with the notion – with the pixellated schedule that had been forwarded to his Blackberry – but as soon as Deneb ceded the floor to her agents, the hall erupted in chaos. Shouts bounced from agent to agent like beach balls gone astray, as general dissent and irritated mumbling crashed around them like the tide. Only when Holly had taken the stage did the room fall silent, a score of foreign agents falling flat under her steely gaze.

When she spoke, her voice was cool. “Agents,” she said, noncommittal. Then her glassy frown warped ever so slightly, a thorny anger peeking out from beneath the permafrost cover of her tone. “ _Alternis_.”

“Huh?”

“Our _presentation_.” Holly’s whisper was hissy through her clenched teeth, and all but silent – not that it mattered in a room full of people trained to read lips.

The crimson wallpaper flashed like the centre of a star when Alternis’ gaze swept across it, and the hisses and whispers in the air crackled like embers. Suddenly, the Harenan desert stretched for acres in front of him: the worn wood floor was hard-packed sand and the ashen faces were just ash and that damned wallpaper had a glow of its own. He shook his head, and when that didn’t work, pressed the heel of his clammy palm to his brow. It came away damper still.

“Agent Edea Lee went missing on December thirty-first of last year,” he finally announced, in a voice not quite his own. “This was succeeding a CIA exfiltration codenamed Operation Vesper, in which she was a key operative. The last time Agent Lee was seen by a fellow operative, she was entering a vehicle with a known affiliate of the religious extremist group known as the Bloodrose Legion. Despite this, we have reason to believe she is innocent of any charges of treason . . . ”

For five straight minutes, Alternis spoke, in a voice flat as paper. As one of the postcards his future seemed to hinge upon. And as he did, Holly brought each one up on the screen, scans of backlit postcards warring on the field of double exposure against their desperate handwriting. _“Seseli libanotis. Brocchinia reducta,”_ they said. A silver rose for Argent, and a carnivorous one for DeRosa. But _“No garden in Eden.”_ The Bloodrose Legion’s hold on the church was weakened. _“No snakes in garden.”_ No more agents – no trained liars, like the serpents of scripture – had been found among the ranks of the Legion.

Then the slide changed, and the card from a peaceful waterfall somewhere on the Continent to a desert somewhere further East. _“Yunohana”_ was her destination, they’d surmised, and between the kingfisher and the Queen of Hearts, whatever lead she was chasing must have had its home in the movings of the monarchy. Then the slideshow moved to the left, and the card further right, east to a printer somewhere in Wa. Edea was safe, Holly leapt to explain then, and whatever situation she’d been investigating must have been stabilised.

As she spoke, Alternis found himself fascinated by his shadow: by this dark, twisting promise he could only see when the light was right. Then, just like that, the light was wrong: dimmer and colder, as Holly clicked from their slideshow to a cool blue screensaver; his shadow grew soft as he shook out a new leaf in his memorised script. Now came their testaments to Edea’s character, and the presentation of signed testimony from every agent in the United States swearing that Edea was worth her salt and then some. Holly had promised him in the car that after this, it was smooth sailing. That the hard bit was over, buried, and gone – like a mine, from a war long since over.

But Deneb’s cough sounded like a gunshot, and Alternis felt himself snap to attention on instinct. “Special Agent Dim,” she barked, “I’d like you to clarify something for me.”

“Anything,” he said, and he meant it.

“What was the nature of your relationship with Agent Lee?”

There were only twenty or so people in the room – maybe fewer. But their faces seemed like an endless stretch of seafoam ahead of him, their unblinking eyes glittering like shattered glass. Alternis had learned to hate the desert, but he had never liked the ocean, either. It swallowed everything whole, taking no prisoners.

“Agent Dim? What was the nature of your relationship with Agent Lee?”

 _No prisoners._ Alternis knew being a prisoner all too well, and he wondered if the relentless onslaught of a stormy sea was some cruel mercy. He wondered if he got seasick. If Edea got seasick. If—

“Agent Dim?”

“ _Physical_ ,” he spat. His paper-flat voice had crumpled into a spitball, dense and unwanted. “Our relationship was physical. We were _fucking._ Is that what you wanted to _fucking_ hear?”

He’d thought Deneb’s words had sounded like a shotgun. If that had been the case, his were heavy artillery. Mortar. But unlike a blast of gunpowder, Alternis hadn’t been ready to duck away, not from this – not from the way forty wide eyes swivelled to meet his, or the way twenty mouths dropped to form perfect, cherry-bomb _“O”_ s at his outburst. The ringing in his ears was the same, though.

His vision swam as he whipped his head back and forth, trying to get his bearings. Beside him, Holly had flushed redder than the wallpaper, and Yew and Janne seemed heads taller than the sea of faces surrounding them as they gawked. Still, their faces – their shock, and awe, and embarrassment – they were inconsequential. Impermanent, even: Alternis could forget they were there with less than a blink, his whirling thoughts blanketing them all like a sandstorm.

And then he remembered that sandstorms were impermanent, too. The earth’s little temper tantrums would always blow over in time, and Alternis had braved enough of them to know they could be made to yield: to return to the earth.

But while he may have looked like a mountain, and sat, in his tiny folding chair, just as unmoving, nothing would return to the Marshal. They would yield, sure. _Alternis_ would yield. Still, even as the earth threatened to split open before him, his heart pounding like a jackhammer at the brittle stone of his too-tight ribs, Alternis knew that his craggy old Marshal – with his eyes like the sea, storming, swimming with rage – was hardly about to take him and his temper tantrums back anywhere.

When he spoke, his voice was impossibly soft. “Agent Deneb,” he said, tightly, “I think it would be best if Special Agent Dim were excused from this hearing.”

Deneb didn’t flinch from his silky anger, and she didn’t seem cowed as she stalked across the room to face the Marshal, her gaze making solid contact with the slate-grey of his blazer. “You would think that, wouldn’t you, Marshal?” she wanted to know. Her tone was sickly-sweet as the doilies she was strangling her office with, and Alternis found he was couldn’t breathe, either, as she dropped the third verbal bomb of the day:

“Being, as you are, Agent Lee’s father.”

“Braev.”

The name was thick and heavy on Alternis’ tongue, and he rolled it around his mouth like a jawbreaker, trying to crack it open. “Braev Lee.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say it.”

The Marshal – _Braev,_ thought Alternis firmly – slumped back in his chair, letting his head roll forward. His goatee, trimmed to neat right angles, cast a blocky shadow over his blazer, no longer quite so pressed. The harsh lights of the canteen shot worn-out blond into a sickly kind of white. His skin blue was as his eyes as he took another swill of cheap cafeteria coffee. The paper cup, already small, was dwarfed by his large hands. Alternis’ fingers brushed as he clutched his own cup, tanned knuckles grey and bloodless.

“Braev Lee,” he said again. Braev lifted his head slowly, meeting Alternis’ gaze with his own, more vulnerable than he had ever seen it.

“Alternis Dim,” he answered.

It was almost a full minute before he spoke again. “I met her when I was working for Interpol, back in Eternia,” he began, tracing the logo embossed on his cup with his index finger. “Edea’s mother, that is. She was an investigative journalist. Knew who I was straight away – saw straight through my legend. She was brilliant.”

“‘Was?’”

It wasn’t the question of somebody who had known grief themselves – or who had any social grace. It certainly wasn’t a question asked by a secret agent. But if Alternis sounded, then, like a tactless little kid, Braev indulged him like a weary father.

“Mahzer passed away during labour,” he said – stiffly, if not sadly. He, Alternis supposed, knew how to make peace with death. “Edea . . . for a time, I couldn’t bear to be near her. To even see her. I left her to her godfather – as if _I’d_ been the one who died.” He let out a bitter laugh, and took another sip of coffee. It was only then he grimaced, as though his drink stung more than the memory. “When she was older, I tried to reach out to her. By that time, though, she’d decided she wanted nothing to do with me.” This time, when he moved for the coffee, he knocked it back like it was something significantly stronger. “We were never close.”

Alternis’ own coffee had long since gone cold, and the silt and grains warred against the awkward shapes of unspoken names on his tongue. _She isn’t dead,_ he wanted to berate Braev. _Don’t talk about her like she is._ Instead, he tried for a smile. “They liked roller derby,” he said, slowly. “Edea and Nobutsuna. Her, um—”

“Her father. I did know the man.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Yeah.”

Once more, Braev was silent, though this lull was heavier – darker. The shadow to fall across his heavy brow was unfamiliar, as was the flicker in his once-glacial gaze. And it didn’t flicker as he finished his terrible office coffee, nor as he completely missed the trash can, his throw going wide and the little paper cup bouncing off the laminated sign telling MI6 to _“leave the kitchen cleaner than you found it.”_

 _Like a black-bag job,_ Alternis reflected. Then, _Oh, Crystals._

“Alternis!”

Janne’s shout was puppy-dog excited, his navy eyes wide and limerent. “Alternis,” he called again. “Alternis, you’ve got to hear this.”

Alternis’ chair whined against the floor as he shot to his feet, and he barely registered the sticky remnants of his coffee as it spilled over his hands – nor the paper cup as he crumpled it in his fists. “Edea?” he demanded, by means of _“welcome back.”_ Then, “Janne, what is it?”

“Well, okay. Here’s what you missed. After the whole you screaming ‘fucking murder’ thing, Deneb tried to call a mistrial – not in her jurisdiction – and that Edea had gone insane. Oh, and you, too. But then it all clicked,” he gushed, words all in a jumble. “It’s—”

“—a coup,” Alternis finished for him. “The throne to Yunohana. Someone is planning to assume it, and the Bloodrose Legion doesn’t want that.”

“You guessed,” marvelled Janne.

For the first time in a long time, Alternis smiled. It opened up slowly – a twitch at the corner of his lips – and then all at once, like spring bursting from any number of tiny buds and pollen allergies. _Can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out,_ he admonished himself – and smiled wider when he realised he heard Edea in the upbraid. “I made Special Agent too,” he reminded Janne, at last. He turned to Braev, and he was surprised to find him offering a grin of his own.

“Reconnaissance and exfiltration,” he mused, sounding the word out carefully and deliberately. “A bag-and-tag. Well within the skillset of two newly-minted Special Agents. Of any of the intelligencers I’ve trained.”

Janne’s nose wrinkled as his smirk stretched to its familiar wolfish corners. “And of any of the birdwatchers in this fine establishment,” he goaded them. “Hey, Marsh, neither the Chameleon nor I are hackers—”

“Janne! This isn’t—” Alternis began, but Braev cut him off.

“Request whoever you need from MI6 or Interpol,” he said, firmly. “I will do all I can to expedite any eventual transfers.”

“And our paperwork?” Janne scrambled to add. Alternis heard himself gasp, the sharp inhale catching on a chapped patch on his lower lip. Any second, he knew the ball would drop: that Braev would come back to reality, and threaten to fire them both for their impudence. For their _impatience_. For the childlike, innocent excitement dancing in Janne’s eyes, or for the way Alternis’ breathing didn’t quite reach below the camera-button on his collar.

But when Braev just nodded along, Alternis felt his shallow breaths hitch even higher in his throat. He may have put on a brave face – an impassive one, even, and one that didn’t mind bad coffee – but beneath the suit and the granite features, Alternis saw, for the first time, a man who missed his daughter.

“I want us in Yunohana in twenty-four hours,” Alternis heard himself say, straightening in his chafing suit. “We move through Interpol, so we have diplomatic cover the second we hit the ground. Until then, we bleed OSINT for every whisper we can find about the throne.” Once more, his voice wasn’t quite his own. With the cold coffee stinging at his throat and his breath fluttering against its base, there was a part of him that felt back at the head of the hearing, babbling on about postcards and code. But there was another part of him that had never been so steeled.

He was going to find Edea.

**Author's Note:**

> me? gongaga  
> updates will be on [tungle.hellsite](https://gidget-goes.tumblr.com) every time there is an update


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